The Angler

O The GALLANT fisher’s life,   It is the best of any! ’T is full of pleasure, void of strife,   And ’t is beloved by many;       Other joys       Are but toys;       Only this       Lawful is;       For our skill       Breeds no ill,     But content and pleasure.*        *        *        *        * When we please to walk abroad   For our recreation, In the fields is our abode,   Full of delectation,       Where, in a brook,       With a hook,—       Or a lake,—       Fish we take;       There we sit,       For a bit,     Till we fish entangle. We have gentles in a horn,   We have paste and worms too; We can watch both night and morn,   Suffer rain and storms too;       None do here       Use to swear:       Oaths do fray       Fish away;       We sit still,       Watch our quill:     Fishers must not wrangle. If the sun’s excessive heat   Make our bodies swelter, To an osier hedge we get,   For a friendly shelter;       Where, in a dike,       Perch or pike,       Roach or dace,       We do chase.       Bleak or gudgeon,       Without grudging;     We are still contented. Or we sometimes pass an hour   Under a green willow, That defends us from a shower,   Making earth our pillow;       Where we may       Think and pray,       Before death       Stops our breath;       Other joys       Are but toys,     And to be lamented.